


Across the Void

by Agnes_Bean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agnes_Bean/pseuds/Agnes_Bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John is too in love with danger. Sherlock does not approve.  Gen/squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the kink meme [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9100.html?thread=45031308#t45031308). Much thanks to [Incapricious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious) for being an awesome beta and helping me clean it up.

The sharp wind bit at Sherlock's face and whipped his coat around his legs as he sprinted. Snow fell so thick and fast it was nearly blinding, but he barely registered the cold against the thrill of adrenaline and the unmistakable high of having solved the case.

The murderer was still meters ahead, scrambling daringly across the slicked rooftops, bounding between buildings with the confidence of a runner — which he was. That, Sherlock considered, pressing harder against the blistering storm, could be a problem. They had about a minute before they reached a gap that Sherlock normally counted on to stop criminals, but this one might actually try the leap. If he missed, fine; Lestrade would be fussed about the mess, but that was hardly Sherlock’s problem. But if he made it — and he _did_ have an Olympic silver in the long jump — they’d lose him.

“We need to catch him before the end of this row!”

He glanced over to see if John had heard, but his companion was already ahead of him, barreling through the slush with the determined speed of a man in love with danger. Sherlock repressed a smile and ducked his head, pushing to keep up. There was really no point. John was in his element, all fire and determination and, unlike Sherlock, he’d actually eaten something in the past few days. He was gaining on the murderer even as Sherlock fell further behind — but wasn’t that what John was for?

Sherlock slowed to watch as the murderer reached the end of the building. The swirling white of snow reduced everything else to dark blurs, but he knew what the pit between houses looked like, dark and intimidating and far wider than any sane man could face.

Would the murderer — ?

Yes.

The man glanced over his shoulder at John just a few steps behind and then went for it, arms flailing against the dark before a gust of snow blurred him from view entirely. Sherlock began running again, eager to see if the man had made it (he’d almost deserve a few more days of freedom if he had, especially given the conditions).

And then Sherlock's heart stopped.

He’d heard that phrase, of course, but he’d never actually experienced it until he saw John hurling himself into the void after the murderer, careening desperately into the night.

 _No. Impossible_. John couldn’t be that stupid.

Sherlock slid and stumbled on the ice as he sprinted with a wired energy he hadn’t felt since that night at the pool, ripping a vest of explosives away from a body so inexplicably precious —

He pulled to a halt at the edge of the roof, the wind nearly pushing him over as he leaned, trying to see through the blizzard. There was one figure on the roof across the way, a hunched mass that was far too large to be John. _No_. John had to be there too, he couldn’t have — ( _Couldn’t have made it, who could make that jump?_ )

Sherlock collapsed to his knees, exhausted breaths coming ragged and burning from the cold. Blood pounded in his ears, blocking out the rush of wind and his own disbelieving gasps. His hands trembled; tears froze painfully to his cheeks. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t — _Of course it could_ , the cruelly rational side of his brain cut in. John loved danger, hadn’t he just been thinking that? And Sherlock was constantly dragging him into situations where the danger was deadly. The only logical outcome was one day —

Then he saw: someone was making his way up the fire escape that clung to the side of the far building. Sherlock scrambled on hands and knees to the very end of the roof and squinted, just able to make out the military crop of the hair. _John_. He must have aimed for the fire escape instead of the other roof. Idiot. (Actually, it was really rather clever, as completely suicidal stunts went. But still, idiot.) He’d been hurt, judging by the way he favored his left arm as he pulled himself up a ladder. But he was moving quickly, so not too hurt.

Sherlock backed away from the edge and pulled his knees to his chest, steadying his breathing as he watched John’s ascent. He could kill him for being so reckless. Hadn’t he seen that the gap was far too wide? That the run was slippery, that the wind was against him, that one mistake could have sent him hurtling to his — to his —

 _Death_. Sherlock forced himself to think the word. John could have died.

Stupid. It was entirely stupid. A completely unacceptable risk and — Oh, look, John was subduing the murderer, though no surprise there, the man had hardly moved since the jump; he must have broken his leg, that tended to happen when pulling stunts like — And what if John had fallen and _lived_ , broken and screaming? Sherlock would have been drenched in John’s blood as he held him and rode beside him in the ambulance, would have sat twitching with anxiety and boredom by his bed for who knows how long, until Mycroft started pestering him about _his_ health, as if that would matter with John lying there, covered in bandages or maybe unconscious —

His heart was racing again; every breath cut sharp through his chest. And there was John, jumping up and down, waving his arms as if nothing was wrong, as if this were just another exciting lark, another mission happily accomplished. He didn’t get it at _all_ , how close he’d come to making this the worst day of Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock rose and waved back, gesturing for John to call Lestrade while he made his way over to the other building the sane way. As he scrambled down the fire escape on his side of the gap, he tried to form a coherent speech about unacceptable actions, but the words kept getting jumbled, and he couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling, and part of him just wanted to punch John for scaring him so damn much.

It only took a few minutes for Sherlock to drag himself down and up the ice covered ladders, fighting the wind, but it felt like hours. The snow lay thick and soft on the roof as he finally hauled himself up.

John stood over the murderer with a modest but triumphant grin. Apparently not satisfied with almost falling to a bloody and gruesome fate, he now appeared to be doing his best to freeze to death instead. The murderer, despite being safely knocked out, had his arms bound by John’s coat. John’s jumper clung to his body, wet and dirty, the right arm torn and matted with blood.

 _Blood_. That was very much not acceptable. Sherlock’s urge to punch his flatmate was immediately overwhelmed by another flood of worry. He closed the gap between them in moments, ripping his coat off and flinging it around John’s shoulders. He tried to force the doctor's arms into it — he couldn't just stand in the cold drenched in blood and snow, that wasn't right; he could get frostbite, or hypothermia, or pneumonia or —

“Sherlock, what?” John’s grin collapsed into a confused frown as he pushed away from Sherlock’s fumbling hands. But he hugged the coat around himself instead of trying to give it back, so Sherlock considered it a success.

They were only inches apart, so close that Sherlock could see the icy huffs of John’s breath even in the dark. He’d never thought he’d be so grateful for the simple condensation of water, but it was a comforting visual assurance that yes, John was there, alive and breathing. He tried to memorize how it looked, little white puffs dispersing into the night.

“Sherlock?” John repeated. “Is something wrong?”

 _Why, yes, you almost_ died, _don’t you see how that’s very, very wrong, the most wrong thing that could possibly happen? Don’t you understand that_ —

“You,” he started. The words still weren’t forming in the way he wanted: clear and precise and not babbling foolishness. He placed a hand on John’s chest. He could feel the beat of John’s heart, pat-pat-pat — far too fast, probably still hyped on adrenaline. “That was very dangerous,” he finally settled on.

John looked like he didn’t understand. “What, the jump? I’m fine, the arm’s nothing.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s jumper and pulled him closer, until their noses almost touched; John’s eyes widened in alarm. "No. You don’t understand. That was — it wasn’t — "

Giving up on words, Sherlock tucked his arm under the coat, hands running along John's back, trying to be sure he was really there. John returned the embrace, wrapping one arm around Sherlock’s waist, tangling the fingers of his other hand into Sherlock’s curls. He tilted Sherlock's face down until their eyes met.

“What...?” His look demanded answers.

Sherlock brought a hand to the back of John’s head, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re not allowed to die,” he explained, voice low and trembling. “You can’t just do things like — that.” He would have waved at the gap, but he didn’t want to stop touching John, as if letting go might make him disappear. “I don’t like it.”

John laughed and slipped back into a tighter hug, face burrowing into Sherlock’s neck. “Now you know how I feel.”

As he rested against John’s hair, Sherlock flashed to a vivid memory: John, having only just met him, standing there amused and so sure that yes, Sherlock would have taken that little spotted pill. _Because you’re an idiot_ , he’d said. That had made Sherlock smile; it was the moment he was sure that this inexplicably intriguing army doctor could be the partner he needed. Maybe they were both idiots.

“I suppose I do,” he agreed. And if John could deal with keeping him alive, surely he could do the same in return. He’d just have to pay a little more attention to what his doctor was doing, stop taking for granted that John would always come out on top, because clearly he couldn’t be counted on to make sane decisions.

That shouldn’t be too difficult, really. After all, what was the point of being the world’s most observant man if he couldn’t keep track of the one person who actually mattered?

“You don’t get to die,” he told the top of John’s head. “I won’t let you.”

In response, John pulled Sherlock closer, tugging the coat until it half encompassed both of them. They stayed entwined as they waited for the police to arrive, ignoring the wind and the snow, content to keep each other safe from the cold.


End file.
